Closer
by mad-cow-mama
Summary: Raven interrupts the doctor's routine. Doctor mechanic, prompted by Closer by The Chainsmokers ft Halsey.


[Closer, Chainsmokers ft Halsey]

Four years. Working together, working apart, against each other, against the Mountain, against the Grounders, against Pike. Working in hope.

Four years without Jake. Four years without Clarke— Jake's death still stood between them. Four years alone. In so many ways, Marcus had been a logical fit. They grew up together, they were friends, they were colleagues. And aside from the little things, like floating her husband, like having her shock-lashed, Marcus should have been a match for her.

Could have been a match for her. But she never sparked. Maybe the shock-lash drew all of that out of her. Or maybe her training to be dispassionate in the face of crisis had taken over— so many crises— and she'd never be passionate about anyone ever again. Maybe. But after the fall of the City of Light, after his crucifixion, after Indra's extremis, Marcus went dark. He cast Abby one last dead look, and started walking west.

Abby didn't stop him.

Abby went back to Arkadia. She couldn't bear being in that bloody city. She couldn't shake the smell of blood. So what if ALIE told the truth? So what if all the reactors in the world were melting down? Helping the people of the Ark had always given her purpose. It was time to rebuild, one person at a time. One illness, one injury at a time.

During her days she rebuilt, but nights found her at the cantina. She sat at the bar, empty stools on either side, night after night, nursing her ration for an hour, then leaving, alone, for her quarters, alone, and she slept, or tried to sleep, alone.

Four years since Jake's final touch.

When a touch, firm, solid, but not invasive, took her shoulder.

"Abby."

Raven.

"You looked like you could use some company." Raven climbed up onto the barstool beside her, slid another drink up next to her, and leaned on the bar, chin in hand. "Word is, you don't talk outside business. Is that true?"

Raven, serious but soft, looked into Abby's eyes. Abby looked into Raven's. She looked long and deep, and Raven simply held her there, looking back.

"You saved us," said Raven.

Abby's forehead creased.

"Thank you," said Raven.

Abby's lips, thin and parched, grew thinner. Her eyes shone, and she looked away. There were reasons she didn't talk outside of office hours.

Raven took her hand then, and in a rush, all the dread, all the despair, all the devouring doubt of the last four years froze through her lungs and dropped, a singularity, into her stomach. Abby tried not to show it, but her temples throbbed, and sweat sheened across her entire skin. Of course it was Raven.

Raven's hand tightened around hers. Abby's next breath took extra effort.

"C'mon, there's something I want you to see."

Raven tugged gently on Abby's hand, out of the bar, away from the noise and breath of other people, out to the Rover. They drove beyond the reach of Arkadia's lights. Abby's breath slowed, deepened. They drove beyond the woods to a clearing, to a rock outcrop. Raven drove almost to the edge.

Raven squeezed Abby's hand. Amid darkness deep as space, bioluminescent moths congregated and migrated, and when they moved on they seemed to leave in their wake a rent in the sky.

"Reminds me of home."

Abby nodded, not taking her eyes off the Milky Way.

"I mean the good parts."

Abby ran her thumb over the back of Raven's hand, letting the quiet bridge the space between them.

She'd touched and been touched since Jake, of course she had— touching was part of her daily work— but Raven's reaching out to her— Raven's melting through her perimeter and connecting directly with her— touched Abby differently. Warmth spread from her palm and fingers toward the center of her chest and radiated out from there, to her toes and scalp.

Abby brought Raven's hand to her lips, easy, automatic, without overthinking it, as if it wasn't the first time.

She felt Raven's eyes cut to her face before she met them with her own. Something like fear, something like bravado washed through Abby, shocking and propelling her forward, until their lips met.

This was reckless, this was foolish, this was nothing she'd considered, but she— didn't stop.

And Raven didn't stop.

Abby released Raven's hand so she could cradle her face. She had no idea how hungry she was, how thirsty for this, for Raven. And she drank deep. And Raven drank deep.

"There's a—" Raven gasped, "there's a mattress in the back? If you want? No pressure?"

Abby took the moment to catch her breath, to consider. The sensation in her lips— too much— not enough— her fingers went to her lips, then her eyes. She inhaled, then nodded.

Raven's eyes crinkled. She climbed into the back.

Abby followed.

And then took the lead. She was starving. She'd been starving, for four years. Starving for calm, starving for contact, starving for peace, desire, comfort, cuddles. Starving for sex.

But this, this wasn't just sex, not for Abby. And after Raven arched and cried out and gasped her name and shuddered over and over, after Abby had pulled out and made Raven shudder yet again, after Abby had wiped her face on Raven's thigh, after Raven had pulled Abby's fingers into her mouth, after Raven's breathing softened out and her legs went limp, and after Raven's eyes fluttered open, the depth in her eyes and the softness in her face told Abby it wasn't just sex for Raven, either.

Raven took Abby's face then and, inflamed by the smell of herself on Abby's cheeks, flipped her over.

"You put in a skylight," Abby said.

And when Raven hummed, "Mmhmm," the vibration waved through Abby from her throat up through her scalp, from her throat down through her center, down through her toes.

Raven's devotion, Abby's sensation. Sensation and more sensation, and Raven worked her up easy and then kept her riding the ridge of it, riding and nearly— and not— and nearly— and not— until Abby began to be afraid she wouldn't— and she took a deep breath and pulled Raven's head to her and rode hard until she barked and howled in surprise and delight and triumph, shaken through, and shaken and shaken again.

She tugged on Raven's hair at last, and Raven slid up alongside her and nuzzled in under her arm. Raven's hair, Raven's skin, warming her as the drying sweat chilled her. Raven pulled a blanket over the two of them.

"Wouldn't have taken you for a crier."

"Fuck yourself," murmured Abby.

"Another time, okay? I'm as fucked right now as I've ever been."

"Walked right into that one." Abby smiled.

She kissed Raven's hair, adjusting to fit closer into Raven's body. Raven purred into Abby's breast.

"I still need to rest, Honey." Abby squeezed Raven. Raven squeezed back.

"It was you, you know," said Abby.

Raven propped up on an elbow. "What?"

"It was you who saved us. Thank you."

Raven smiled, but her eyes slid to the side. She tucked herself back under Abby's arm.

"It's what I do," she mumbled. And they let the sounds of the night envelop them.

Abby lay like that, eyes closed, breathing deep and slow, arm wrapped around this woman, this girl, this shining, sensitive being who had been beside her all this time, until Raven twitched that twitch of someone falling off the edge into sleep. And Abby opened her eyes.

And saw the stars.


End file.
